Each barns green thatch reeks in the sunIts mate the happy sparrow callsAnd as nest building spring begunPeeps in the holes about the wallsThe wren a sunny side the stackWi short tail ever on the struntCockd gadding up above his backAgain for dancing gnats will hunt

The gladdend swine bolt from the styAnd round the yard in freedom runOr stretching in their slumbers lyeBeside the cottage in the sunThe young horse whinneys to its mateAnd sickens from the threshers doorRubbing the straw yards banded gateLonging for freedom on the moor

I love to see the old heath's withered brakeMingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling,While the old heron from the lonely lakeStarts slow and flaps his melancholy wing,And oddling crow in idle motions swingOn the half rotten ashtree's topmost twig,Beside whose trunk the gipsy makes his bed.Up flies the bouncing woodcock from the brigWhere a black quagmire quakes beneath the tread,The fieldfares chatter in the whistling thornAnd for the awe round fields and closen rove,And coy bumbarrels twenty in a droveFlit down the hedgerows in the frozen plainAnd hang on little twigs and start again.

The holly bush, a sober lump of green,Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown and grey,And smiles at winter be it e’er so keenWith all the leafy luxury of May.And O it is delicious, when the dayIn winter's loaded garment keenly blowsAnd turns her back on sudden falling snows,To go where gravel pathways creep betweenArches of evergreen that scarce let throughA single feather of the driving storm;And in the bitterest day that ever blewThe walk will find some places still and warmWhere dead leaves rustle sweet and give alarmTo little birds that flirt and start away.

Till the miller, expecting that all would get loose,Went to seek him and cursed him outright for a goose;But he dipt his dry beak in the mug once or twiceAnd forgot all his passion and toil in a trice.And the flybitten horse at the old smithy postMight stamp till his shoes and his legs they were lost.He sung his old songs and forgot his old mill--Blow winds high or low, she might rest her at will.And the cobbler, in spite of his bustle for pelf,Left the shop all the day to take care of itself.

And the toper who carried his house on his head,No wife to be teazing, no bairns to be fed,Would sit out the week or the month or the yearOr a life-time so long as he'd credit for beer.The ploughman he talked of his skill as divine,How he could plough thurrows as straight as a line;And the blacksmith he swore, had he but the command,He could shoe the king's hunter the best in the land;And the cobbler declared, was his skill but once seen,He should soon get an order for shoes from the queen.

But the tinker he swore he could beat them all three,For gi' me a pair of old bellows, says he,And I'll make them roar out like the wind in a stormAnd make them blow fire out of coal hardly warm.The toper said nothing but wished the quart fullAnd swore he could toss it all off at a pull.Have one, said the tinker; but wit was away,When the bet was to bind him he'd nothing to pay.And thus in the face of life's sun-and-shower weatherThey drank, bragged, and sung, and got merry together.

The sun he went down--the last gleam from his browFlung a smile of repose on the holiday plough;The glooms they approached, and the dews like a rainFell thick and hung pearls on the old sorrel maneOf the horse that the miller had brought to be shod,And the morning awoke, saw a sight rather odd--For a bit of the halter still hung at the door,Bit through by the horse now at feed on the moor;And the old tinker's budget lay still in the weather,While all kept on singing and drinking together.

Then the toper sat down with a hiccup and feltIf he'd still an odd coin in his pocket to melt,And he made a wry face, for his pocket was bare.--But he laughed and danced up, What, old boy, are you there?When he felt that a stiver had got to his kneeThrough a hole in his fob, and right happy was he.Says the tinker, I've brawled till no breath I have gotAnd not met with twopence to purchase a pot.Says the toper, I've powder to charge a long gun,And a stiver I've found when I thought I'd got none;

So helping a thirsty old friend in his needIs my duty--take heart, thou art welcome indeed.Then the smith with his tools in Sir John made a breach,And the toper he hiccuped and ended his speech;And pulled at the quart, till the snob he declaredWhen he went to drink next that the bottom was bared.No matter for that, said the toper, and grinned;I had but a soak and neer rested for wind.That's the law, said the smith, with a look rather vexed,But the quart was a forfeit; so pay for the next.

Thus they talked of their skill and their labour till noonWhen the sober man's toil was exactly half done,And there the plough lay--people hardly could passAnd the horses let loose polished up the short grassAnd browsed on the bottle of flags lying there,By the gipsey's old budget, for mending a chair.The miller's horse tied to the old smithy doorStood stamping his feet, by the flies bitten sore,Awaiting the smith as he wanted a shoe;And he stampt till another fell off and made two:

The hogshead rolled forward, the toper fell back,And the host laughed aloud as his sides they would crackTo see the old tinker's toil make such a gapIn his coat as to rend it from collar to flap.But the tinker he grumbled and cried Fiddle-dee!This garment hath been an old tenant with me;And a needle and thread with a little good skillWhen I've leisure will make it stand more weathers still.Then crack went his breeks from the hip to the kneeWith his thrusting--no matter; for nothing cared he.

So long as Sir John rolled along to the door,He's a chip of our block, said the blacksmith, and swore;And as sure as I live to drive nails in a shoeHe shall have at my cost a full pitcher or two.And the toper he hiccuped--which hindered an oath--So long as he'd credit, he'd pitcher them both.But the host stopt to hint when he'd ordered the draySir Barleycorn's order was purchase and pay.And now the old knight is imprisoned and ta'enTo waste in the tavern man's cellar again.

And now, said the blacksmith, let forfeits come firstFor the insult swipes offered, or his hoops I will burst.Here it is, my old hearties--Then drink your thirst full,Said the host, for the stingo is worth a strong pull.Never fear for your legs if they're broken to-day;Winds only blow straws, dust, and feathers away.But the cask that is full, like a giant he lies,And giants alone can his spirits capsize.If he lies in the path, though a king's coming bye,John Barleycorn's mighty and there he will lie.

Says the host, We shall burn out with thirst, he's so big.There's a cag of small swipes half as sour as a wig.In such like extremes, why, extremes will come pat;So let's go and wet all our whistles with that.Says the gipsey, May I never bottom a chairIf I drink of small swipes while Sir John's lying there.And the blacksmith he threw off his apron and sworeSmall swipes should bemoisten his gullet no more:Let it out on the floor for the dry cock-a-roach--And he held up his hammer with threatens to broach

Sir John in his castle without leave or lawAnd suck out his blood with a reed or a strawEre he'd soak at the swipes--and he turned him to start,Till the host for high treason came down a full quart.Just then passed the dandy and turned up his nose:They'd fain have him shove, but he looked at his clothesAnd nipt his nose closer and twirled his stick roundAnd simpered, Tis nuisance to lie on the ground.But Bacchus, he laughed from the old tavern sign,Saying, Go on, thou shadow, and let the sun shine.

Then again they all tried, and the tinker he sworeThat the hogshead had grown twice as heavy or more.Nay nay, said the toper, and reeled as he spoke,We're all getting weak, that's the end of the joke.The ploughman came up and cut short his old tune,Hallooed "woi" to his horses and though it was JuneSaid he'd help them an hour ere he'd keep them adry;Well done, said the blacksmith with hopes running high;He moves, and, by jingo, success to the plough!Aye aye, said the cobbler, we'll conquer him now.

By the old tavern door on the causey there layA hogshead of stingo just rolled from a dray,And there stood the blacksmith awaiting a dropAs dry as the cinders that lay in his shop;And there stood the cobbler as dry as a bun,Almost crackt like a bucket when left in the sun.He'd whetted his knife upon pendil and honeTill he'd not got a spittle to moisten the stone;So ere he could work--though he'd lost the whole day--He must wait the new broach and bemoisten his clay.

The cellar was empty, each barrel was drainedTo its dregs--and Sir John like a rebel remainedIn the street--for removal too powerful and largeFor two or three topers to take into charge.Odd zooks, said a gipsey, with bellows to mend,Had I strength I would just be for helping a friendTo walk on his legs: but a child in the streetHad as much power as he to put John on his feet.Then up came the blacksmith: Sir Barley, said he,I should just like to storm your old tower for a spree;

And my strength for your strength and bar your renownI'd soon try your spirit by cracking your crown.And the cobbler he tuckt up his apron and spitIn his hands for a burster--but devil a bitWould he move--so as yet they made nothing of land;For there lay the knight like a whale in the sand.Said the tinker: If I could but drink of his veinI should just be as strong and as stubborn again.Push along, said the toper, the cellar's adry:There's nothing to moisten the mouth of a fly.

At the age of sixteen, if we may trust the account given by his early friend Mr. Octavius Gilchrist, in the "London Magazine" for January, 1820, Clare had published the following sonnet "To a Primrose":

.Welcome, pale primrose, starting up betweenDead matted leaves of oak and ash, that strewThe every lawn, the wood, and spinney through,'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green!How much thy presence beautifies the ground!How sweet thy modest, unaffected prideGlows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side!And where thy fairy flowers in groups are foundThe schoolboy roams enchantedly along,Plucking the fairest with a rude delight,While the meek shepherd stops his simple song,To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight,O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bringThe welcome news of sweet returning Spring.

.Thus dame the winter-night regalesWith wonder's never-ceasing tales;While in a corner, ill at ease,Or crushing tween their father's knees,The children--silent all the while--And een repressed the laugh or smile--Quake with the ague chills of fear,And tremble though they love to hear;Starting, while they the tales recall,At their own shadows on the wall:Till the old clock, that strikes unseenBehind the picture-pasted screenWhere Eve and Adam still agreeTo rob Life's fatal apple-tree,Counts over bed-time's hour of rest,And bids each be sleep's fearful guest.She then her half-told tales will leaveTo finish on to-morrow's eve;--The children steal away to bed,And up the ladder softly tread;Scarce daring--from their fearful joys--To look behind or make a noise;Nor speak a word! but still as sleepThey secret to their pillows creep,And whisper oer, in terror's way,The prayers they dare no louder say;Then hide their heads beneath the clothes,And try in vain to seek repose:While yet, to fancy's sleepless eye,Witches on sheep-trays gallop by,And fairies, like a rising spark,Swarm twittering round them in the dark;Till sleep creeps nigh to ease their cares,And drops upon them unawares.

Supper removed, the mother sits,And tells her tales by starts and fits.Not willing to lose time or toil,She knits or sews, and talks the whileSomething, that may be warnings foundTo the young listeners gaping round--Of boys who in her early dayStrolled to the meadow-lake to play,Where willows, oer the bank inclinedSheltered the water from the wind,And left it scarcely crizzled oer--When one sank in, to rise no more!And how, upon a market-night,When not a star bestowed its light,A farmer's shepherd, oer his glass,Forgot that he had woods to pass:And having sold his master's sheep,Was overta'en by darkness deep.How, coming with his startled horse,To where two roads a hollow cross;Where, lone guide when a stranger strays,A white post points four different ways,Beside the woodride's lonely gateA murdering robber lay in wait.The frightened horse, with broken rein,Stood at the stable-door again;But none came home to fill his rack,Or take the saddle from his back;The saddle--it was all he bore--The man was seen alive no more!--In her young days, beside the wood,The gibbet in its terror stood:Though now decayed, tis not forgot,But dreaded as a haunted spot.--

From Helpston in rural Northamptonshire, John Clare was born in 1793. He is now regarded as the most important poet of the natural world from Britain. He wrote many poems, essays, journals and letters about love, sex, corruption and politics, environmental and social change, poverty and folk life. Even in his madness, his talents were not diminished. Ronald Blythe, President of the John Clare Society, sees Clare as "... England's most articulate village voice".
Clare died, aged 71, in 1864.